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Shaving in Siliguri

There is, I suppose, a gruesome fascination
In watching blood spread across shaving foam:
Crimson, then red, then pink
And then a dull, gory grey
Washed off in hot water and a scar to remember.

There could be a different image, a wish even,
Of blood oozing from a wrist slit with the razor,
As it takes away the stasis of middle-classiyat
Eyes glued to the sight, the heart beating excitedly,
Till all sound stops and lights dim
In that cockroached lodge room.

No, it’s no romantic place to die.
Much better to plunge into the raped Teesta –
Virgin mountain stream now
Pregnant with mud and moving zombie-like
To her doom in the silt of the Brahmaputra.

The train rings its corporate deadline.
I have fifteen minutes to dress and pack:
The Kanchan Kanya Express leaves at nine-thirty sharp.

(Longlisted by the RaedLeafPoetry-India 2013 Awards)
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